As any starving artist does, I’m perfectly willing to sacrifice a certain level of artistic integrity in order to pay the bills. So when my space got bumped in the gallery, and I hadn’t sold a single painting in months, I had no choice but to branch out into other services.

It was the gallery owner who had first suggested that I consider portraiture. It really wasn’t something I’d given much thought to previously. But when I did a little research and figured out what wealthy upstate families pay to get portraits painted of their obnoxious little trust fund babies, my interest was immediately piqued.

My first few jobs were stressful. I’m not good with children anyway, and add to that these are very spoiled, bratty children, and my tolerance level just plummeted. But, when I saw the four figure check for a single day’s work, my ability to put up with childish models who won’t sit still and stop fidgeting with their ruffled skirts seemed to increase dramatically.

Eventually, I broke out of only doing children and managed to get my name around enough that I was getting work from older business executives who wanted their paintings hanging on the walls of their offices. This was far easier work, if still not terribly rewarding.

In a matter of months, I had established a name for myself as a very serviceable portrait artist in the New York area, and I was making more money than I’d ever made before. I had regular ads in the paper, and for the first time in my life, I was actually turning down jobs because I was so overbooked.

So, when I received a call one day from a man calling himself only “Dugan”, I was quick to turn down his request to meet the next day for a session.

“I’m sorry, sir. I simply can’t do it. I have a waiting list six weeks long. There’s just no way I could work you in on such short notice. My work is very time intensive,” I explained over the phone.

“What do I need to do to make it worth your while?” the husky voice on the other end of the receiver asked back.

“It’s really not a question of money, sir. I just really don’t have the time,” I intended to apologize again, then end the call and hang up before he attempted to coerce me further, but something made me hesitate.

“Make time,” the thick, roguish voice commanded.

“Beg your pardon?” I asked, a bit remised at the instruct.

“I said, make time.”

I paused. I wasn’t really sure how to respond. The logical thing to do would be to hang up the phone and pay no more attention to this client. But I couldn’t. Something in that voice had swayed me. And as much as I was trying to think of a way to deny him once more, in the back of my mind, I already knew that I was going to obey his command. Curiosity had already overpowered my better judgment, as was all too often the case in my life.

Reluctantly, I agreed. I would have to push a few clients back. They wouldn’t like it, but I was a hot commodity now, and I supposed it was time I took advantage of that.

…

Dugan had given me an address. It was just outside the city to the